


Hot Headquarters

by Britpacker



Series: Making It Real [9]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: It's Captain Archer's big day, but Lieutenant Reed's mind is elsewhere.  So - with a bit of prompting - is Commander Tucker's.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** A decidedly anti-canon scene for a happier final episode (you know, the one Paramount really should have made). An epilogue to the whole "Making It Real" series.

Antsy crewmates. Forget irate Klingons and Romulans up to their asses in deception. That, in Trip Tucker's increasingly frazzled opinion, was the greatest danger Starfleet Academy failed to prepare its students to face.

Johnny had been bad enough, pacing the green room for half an hour muttering fragments of his big speech until even he didn't know whether he was praising the Vulcans or calling Soval a jackass's uncle. The final straw was dashing to the vestibule and finding Malcolm - his lover Malcolm, the man he hadn't seen in fifteen long, lonely night-time hours - skittish as a mouse in a barnful of alley cats. Fidgeting, sighing, shuffling his feet while they inched amid a heaving, sweaty crowd through a lobby full of security checks, the man who faced down rampaging Xindi and Nausicaan pirates with equal aplomb, the most dangerous man in the fleet, might have been a first-year cadet summoned before a committee of admirals. "Mal, relax a little, willya? It's Johnny who's givin' the speech!"

"Sorry." For a couple of beats, Reed stopped rocking on the balls of his feet. "Hoshi gone into hiding, d' you think?"

"Most likely." Five thousand honoured guests speaking a dozen different languages milled around the entrance hall, shepherded by a handful of frantic ushers in dress uniform. Tucker wouldn't have blamed Earth's most renowned linguist for adopting at least a wig and an oversized pair of shades. "Travis?"

" _Mingling_ with true boomer enthusiasm within three minutes of the first ID check."

"Uh-oh. Female usher?"

"Rather a pretty one. T'Pol?"

"Busy telling the cap'n his sentiments are _logical and suitably expressed._ "

The near corner of Malcolm's mouth turned up. "I'm sure he'll appreciate that."

"You're being all British and ironic again, right?" Trip ventured doubtfully.

"Hmpff!"

"Dammit Malcolm, if you can't stand still, will you just go jog around the block or something 'til they open the auditorium doors?"

"Sorry." Like a small boy playing statues Reed froze, every muscle in the side pressed up against his neighbour compacted. "I'm a bit on edge."

Trip watched as a thin, well-cut bottom lip was drawn between sharp teeth. "No kiddin'," he drawled, tightening up his arm against the urge to drape it over the smaller man's stiff shoulders while a large Tellarite slammed him from the starboard side. "Wanna tell me why?"

Malcolm's throat convulsed. "Not here," he whispered.

"Why - oh." 

_Oh. Yeah, that sums it up._

Possessed by the kind of sprite Grandma Tucker said passed exclusively through the male line of the family, Trip swooped to feather the inevitable question across the sensitive shell of his boyfriend's ear. "Got an itch that needs scratchin', Lootenant?"

"God, yes!"

The breathless candour was all it took. Suddenly Trip couldn't keep still either, all his attention fixed on the insidious little tickle deep inside: the insistent protest of his deprived body against an entire night sleeping alone. A whole twenty-four hours plus since it had known the joy of its mate's touch.

_Dammit! We're Starfleet officers not tomcats!_

"Missed you too, darlin'." This close he could almost taste the rich, enticing scent of his long-time love: feel the heat radiating off the slender body he knew so well. "I don't sleep worth a damn unless I'm holding you."

"Mmm, covered in the smell of each other." The usually precise British accent slipped, the husky words winning a small sob from the older man. "I couldn't wait to see you this morning, and now - I'm supposed to be an armoury officer! The embodiment of self-control. And look at me! So _bloody_ horny I can't stand it!"

"Right there with ya, babe." If he could get away with that endearment without a bruised shin to show Phlox later Tucker figured his partner must be close to actual physical distress, the mellow spread of desire that flooded his bowels spiked into fiery arrows that heated his fair skin with an altogether too-appealing flush. "Soon as Johnny's done his stuff, we're outta here, agreed?"

"Oh, God!" A pair of nearby Andorians twitched their antennae his way and Malcolm ducked his dark head, embarrassment pulsing through his inconvenient arousal. "He'll go on for hours!"

Having listened to the speech fifteen times in the last two weeks Trip couldn't disagree, and now Malcolm was squirming against him, his quick, shallow breaths fanning the taller man's ear. He didn't have to look around; still less ask.

Mal was at boiling point, and the pressure of the crowd, constantly forcing him smack into his lover's personal space, was more than his pleasure-starved senses could stand.

This was agony.

For the both of them.

Desperate, Trip scanned the marble and glass foyer for something - anything - to distract his wayward mind from thoughts of Malcolm, hot and aroused, audibly fighting for control beside him. His eye snagged on a discreet doorway through which a couple of uncomfortable-looking Vulcans were gliding, making themselves more obvious by their impotent effort at merging into the throng. 

_Right. Cloakroom. Toilets._

Privacy.

Well. Kind of.

His mind must be under alien control. Otherwise, Trip knew he wouldn't for a second consider doing - well, exactly what it was he was considering.

_Or not, as the case might be._

Because there was no consideration in the push he gave his neighbour that angled Reed's feet toward the unmarked door. Absolutely no rational assessment of the risks involved when he ground himself against the younger man's ass, silently offering what they both needed. 

And not even Senior Tactical Officer Reed could perform a strategic assessment _that_ fast. 

Time sped up to the point he couldn't identify the species they were barging out of their way. He grunted a follow-up to Malcolm's repetitive chant of apology, feeling the rawness of the Brit's voice all the way down to his balls. He'd thought a night in a different building from his lover couldn't be too bad. They'd handled it often enough before.

He'd been wrong.

He needed Malcolm Reed like an alcoholic needed his next drink. Urgently. Immediately. And to hell with the consequences.

The cloakroom was gloomy and deserted, free-standing racks already groaning under the weight of flowing Vulcan outer robes and the heavy blue cloaks of the Andorian Imperial Guard. Trip stumbled toward an unlit corner near the bathroom facility where two laden stands of brocaded robes formed a right-angle, garment hems sweeping to the floor. "Jesus, Malcolm!" he growled almost knocked over by the sinewy whirlwind that was his lover in passion's grip. Opulent fabrics whispered, caressing his flaming face as they fell into the shadows, groping and gasping like a pair of oversexed kids. He slammed the Brit up against the white-painted wall. The crack of ancient paint crumbling beneath their assault struck his ear like a thunderclap.

"Mmm, yes." His thigh nestled between the Englishman's legs and wantonly Reed rode it, a frown of feral pleasure twisting his angular features. Trip cupped his partner's ass, digging blunt fingertips deep into the firm flesh as he thrust, one finger forcing its way up between the cheeks. Malcolm buried a wail against his neck.

"C'mon darlin'." Enveloped in shadow, luxuriant fabric sighing around them as every move stirred a universe of scents from the coats and cloaks, Trip could forget the assembled dignitaries awaiting his old friend's keynote speech; couldn't even have remembered why they were prancing about Starfleet Headquarters to begin with. Malcolm bucked hard against his hands, ravaging his willing mouth while tiny moans bled out between bruised and swollen lips. His body blazed, the washed-out pallor of the universe suddenly splashed with brilliant colour, the lifeblood racing through his veins. Nipping on the succulent tongue duelling with his, he drove his lover roughly against his solid thigh, guiding the dark head to his shoulder as Malcolm stiffened, shuddered and, silently, came.

Burying his face in Trip's neck the Englishman rode out his climax until the tidal waves subsided to the plashing kiss of ocean against a shingle beach. Lassitude uncurled from his toes, leaving him to sag sleepily in his boyfriend's cradling hold, oblivious to the hum of voices beyond their sanctuary. Trip rocked him gently, murmuring endearments to ease his lover down - and to distract himself from the solid length of molten rock glowing inside his dangerously tight dress pants.

He knew immediately his nonsense talk penetrated Malcolm's dreamy bubble. The straight nose burrowed deeper into the side of his neck, a little whimper heating already sweaty skin. And the thighs straddling his gave a sweet, experimental clench.

All the air hissed out of Tucker's lungs. Smoky-eyed, Malcolm lifted his face and favoured him with a slow, hazy smile as he slithered to the ground, knees weakly braced against his legs' urge to give way. "I'm a mess."

"Yeah."

The tension in the bigger body crushing his began to penetrate Malcolm's happy bubble. Against the stickiness of his belly, the thick rod of a Floridian erection pulsed urgently. Trip was shaking. Violently. Fighting for control.

Putty in a good tactician's hands.

The short hairs at the back of his neck began to prickle. Deep in his balls he could feel the first faint tickle of reviving excitement. And the instant he spied it, a low, shabby exit off to his left, the plan was crystal in its glorious clarity.

In his bedfuddled state Trip had no defence against his companion's sudden shove and his protesting yelp was swallowed in a vicious, demanding kiss that successfully eliminated any further protest. Reed kept moving, pushing his lover back until the door creaked open beneath their weight and they half-fell into a small courtyard, prison-like with towering, windowless structures on all four sides, beyond. 

"Malcolm." His name emerged gravelly between swollen lips as Tucker blinked, a man in a daze, at their unfamiliar location. "What..."

Fingers still slackened from recent pleasure fumbled with zips and silver buttons. Malcolm spun on his heel, letting his head hang down while both hands flattened against unpolished stonework, his fingernails biting into rough mortar for purchase. "Inside me," he grated, the command emerging in a desperate appeal; this had to happen fast, before his demanding body could fully stir. "Now."

"Sonofabitch." For a split second Trip Tucker felt the cool splash of common sense against his cheek, then the lava bubbled up in his tight balls and it faded away. His growl barely drowning the ripping sound of his fly being wrenched down, even the shallowest of raspy breaths got trapped in his throat at the sudden, unceremonious dropping of British pants. "Not here. We shouldn't. Oh God!"

The sight of long fingers easing his lover's glorious milky cheeks apart was too much. Cognisant enough to spit liberally on his palms, Tucker rubbed his swollen shaft until both it and his spinning head were ready to explode. Then, in a single firm stroke, he sank deep into his mate's receptive body, his guttural groan bouncing back off the surrounding walls like an echo. 

He couldn't last long. A few ragged thrusts were all it took for his painful balls to erupt, shooting his liquid heat in thick, sweet spurts through Reed's tight passage. The Englishman withdrew front teeth from his abused bottom lip, aware of nothing beyond the drumming in his head and the warmth that spread through his bowels. "Better?" he rumbled.

"Yeah." The snub tip of a nose nuzzled his nape. "Where are we?"

It was, Malcolm acknowledged, a fair question; and one to which he had given minimal consideration when forming his Tucker-relief strategy. "Servants' quarters, I think," he said, his internal muscles softened to aid the easy escape of his partner's spent cock. Lazily he turned into the blond's embrace, awed anew by the joy he, mere Malcolm Reed, could bring to this astonishing man. "Thought as much."

"Huh?"

Eloquence. Contrary to the suspicion of certain admirals, Charles Tucker III had more than his fair share. Just not, Reed reflected smugly, after he'd fucked them both silly. "The paint was all peeling on the other side of the door," he explained, using the precise tone of exaggerated patience he knew would infuriate his man to full awareness. "Obviously, if it was used by a bigwig, it'd be smartened up, wouldn't it?"

"Smartass." A wet kiss was bestowed on the end of his nose. "And you're all sticky."

"So I am." Semen was trickling down his belly and inner thighs; his underwear wet and prickly against his legs. "Be a dear and scout ahead, will you?"

No cartoon thief ever made a more conspicuous show of checking the territory than Charles Tucker III on his way to the bathroom and Malcolm was still shaking his head when, a wad of suitably wetted paper towelling in his hands, he dived into the nearest stall. "Oh! Coming to help, are you?"

Trip flopped onto the toilet seat, long limbs spread and golden head lolling back, the very picture of masculine contentment. "Least ah can do, darlin', seeing what you've just done for me," he drawled.

"You'd have been waddling like a constipated hen, love." While his lover luxuriated in the golden glow of recent pleasure, Malcolm set about his sodden crotch, tutting at the sticky residue that soaked the sheets. "Couldn't have people pointing all the way up the scaffolding - the VIP seats, rather - could we?"

"You're real glad to be outta camera-shot, and don't you try pretending different." He could sit through the formalities better, Trip decided, for that nagging inner itch of sexual frustration having been soothed: and a look at Malcolm's contented face told him he wasn't alone in that. "Ready to go face our public?"

Long lashes dipped as Reed zipped himself up, absently adjusting his uniform. "Can I hold your hand?" he asked with a timidity that wrung Trip's vulnerable heart. He hadn't heard that particular tone since the morning after their drunken first time, when he'd had to move faster than any Tucker should before 0830 to stop his panic-stricken beloved running for the next star system.

Back then it had taken a lot of cuddling to bolster the prickly Limey's waning confidence. This time, he congratulated himself, a big smile and a loud "Hell, yeah!" worked just as well.

Their fingers laced, Enterprise's Chief Engineer and Armoury Officer took their places in the excited rabble queuing for access to the main hall, the speculative looks sent their way rolling over them like stardust across the hull. NX-01 Enterprise was history, but Trip found he no longer minded. He had Malcolm and a whole lifetime of adventures left to share.


End file.
